New York

Ian Bloom wrote New York at age 33, after his return from Dubai and Switzerland and before his passage to Japan—a searing, symphonic screen novel that detonates with the force of the modern American myth.

New York is a noir epic of espionage, betrayal, and the corrosive glamour of power—where Wall Street and the Intelligence Community are twin arms of the same hydra, and identity is a weapon with no safety.

Set in the shadow mazes of the Lower East Side and the vaults of Langley, New York traces the intertwined rises of Dante, a CIA golden boy turned financial tactician, and Theo Cassel, a skater-brained felon engineered into a covert instrument of statecraft. At the nexus of capital markets and covert ops, they descend into the psychic and physical battleground of the American simulation—where hedge funds launder wars, café fronts conceal plutonium trades, and every act of patriotism is encrypted in plausible deniability.

Written with Bloom's signature restraint, cinematographic velocity, and X-ray precision, New York reads like The Departed reprogrammed by Thomas Pynchon and ghostwritten by a techno Graham Greene. The dialogue is loaded. The structure is pure tactician's design. And the world it exposes is terrifyingly real: privatized intelligence, ritualized finance, and the American empire wired to implode.

New York is statecraft in street clothes. God’s eye goes dark. The machine keeps moving.